A Ravishing Beauty in Disguise: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Emily Honeyfield

  George gave Tim’s hair a ruffle with his hand. “On with you then, Master Timmy!” The boy shot George a grin before he eyed his mother to see if she also approved. She must have done because Tim was soon out of the room, bare feet and all.

  Mrs. Henderson called, “Timmy, come back and put something on your feet! We shall not have you undoing all of Doctor Rowley’s hard work!”

  George just shook his head as he gathered up his equipment and put it back into his black leather bag. He followed the mother out of the room as she went to fetch Timothy from doing himself damage. “Mrs. Henderson,” George said as he got to the front door. “If he begins to cough, give him some of the elixirs I left and put on a kettle for some lemon and honey tea. I shall be back to check on him in a week, but please call me if you need me sooner.”

  “Bless you, Doctor Rowley,” Mrs. Henderson said as she clutched her apron. “Here, I know it isn’t much.” She held out her hand and George tried to wave off the coins, but she insisted as she pressed them into his palm. “You do so much for us. Let us pay you, won’t you?”

  George sighed and nodded. If it made the woman feel better then he supposed it could not hurt. “You are a kind woman, Mrs. Henderson. I shall see you in a week, no payment necessary.”

  Mrs. Henderson looked like she might start singing his praises again, and George took evasive action by giving her a bow and replacing his hat on his head. With the signal given, he bid her good morning and stepped off down the street with a clear conscience. As he walked he listened to the clatter of dishes, the trill of voices, and the general din of life in London.

  George had come to London to study at one of the local hospitals and earn his license. He had never intended on staying, as his goal in earning a medical degree had had little to do with the masses. No, George had gotten his license to help his mother who was very sick.

  Unfortunately George could not save her, even with all his learning. It perhaps had been folly to think he could succeed where the other doctors had failed. His mother had smiled at him. She had called him her “gentleman doctor.”

  George took his mind away from his mother. His failure stung too much when he held it close. He looked instead down the hill towards the river. The fog was gathered there and George treaded on toward it.

  He might have failed his mother but he had sworn to help people just as she wanted him to do. He would save the whole of London if it lifted this weight from his heart. To mend others was to mend ourselves, as his old mentor at the hospital had told him once when George’s doubts had gotten the better of him. He would heal himself one patient at a time.

  ***

  Early the next morning, Priscilla eyed Gwen in the mirror as the maid combed and braided Priscilla’s brown hair. My hair really is the most boring color, Priscilla decided. She much preferred Gwen’s auburn locks. They were so dramatic compared to Priscilla’s mundane hair.

  “What are you pouting at?” Gwen asked with a grin.

  Priscilla laughed and gave a sigh. “I just wish my hair was not such a dreary thing. It is so bleak compared to yours.”

  “I like your hair. It reminds me of chocolate cake. I love chocolate cake,” Gwen said with an unabashed look of amusement.

  Priscilla could not stop herself from rolling her eyes. “I like chocolate cake too, but do you not think that red velvet cake [F1]is more dramatic?”

  “Tastes the same with your eyes closed,” Gwen replied with her tongue in her cheek.

  Priscilla laughed. “It is too early to be talking of dessert.”

  “What will you do today, Miss?” Gwen was just about done braiding her hair.

  Pricilla thought of all that she had to accomplish before the wedding. She really did not have that much left. The wedding was drawing closer and closer, no matter how Priscilla wished the time would slow down. “Well, Mother is insistent that I look at more dresses, even though we have a perfectly good one.”

  “That sounds like Lady Chaplin,” Gwen said. She gave Priscilla a compassionate smile. “Do you want me to tag along today and be a buffer for you?”

  “No,” Priscilla said and she noticed that Gwen looked visibly relieved. Priscilla smiled. “I can handle my mother. Now if you could tell me how to handle my sister then I would be beholden to you for all time.”

  Gwen whistled. “Not sure I can solve that riddle for you. I never even understood my own sister.”

  “She is my younger sister but we are not that far apart in age,” Priscilla continued. “I want to be close to her. We should be close, should we not?”

  Gwen heaved a sigh and walked over to the vanity to put away the brush. “Not all sisters are close. I have three sisters and I only really speak to one of them. Family does not always mean friendship, but I do hope you can find some way to connect with your sister, Miss. If that is truly what you want, I hope it happens.”

  Priscilla nodded. “I hope so too, but I fear that my hope gets further from reality every day. I think she resents me for marrying first.”

  “How could that be? You are the oldest and therefore should marry first,” Gwen said with a shake of her head.

  Priscilla knew all of that. Her mother had told her the same thing and said she was just being paranoid because of her nerves. Perhaps that was true. It could be true.

  “I just wish that I could find some common ground with Bridgitte.” Priscilla had been trying for so long to come up with something that she and her sister agreed on, and she had really thought that this Season in London might be the thing that did that. They were both thrust into the spotlight, which Bridgitte was clearly more comfortable in, and Priscilla had been happy to let her sister shine.

  Priscilla preferred to play her piano and sing than to dance with men at fancy balls. Bridgitte, however, had the fever that came with the discovery of the male gender. The symptoms of the batting eyelashes and flushed cheeks were all too evident in her sister. At first, Priscilla had gotten most of the attention, to Bridgitte’s chagrin.

  It did not take long for Priscilla to lose favour in the eyes of prospective dance partners when it became obvious that her strength was not being a charming decorative ornament to hang on their arms. Bridgitte knew when to laugh and when to dip her head demurely, and just what to say to make the gentlemen come back for another dance.

  Really, if Priscilla thought about it, it made sense that her father would choose Priscilla to wed first. After all, she was definitely the one who needed help with making a match. There was no doubt that Bridgitte would find a suitable husband in time.

  “You will find what you need in time,” Gwen said, and Priscilla looked at her oddly before she remembered what she had said just beforehand.

  Priscilla nodded. “I suppose everything just takes the Lord’s own time.”

  “Can’t rush it, even if we try, Miss,” Gwen said with a smile. “Do you honestly think Lady Chaplin will make you buy another dress?”

  Priscilla stood up with a sigh. “With my mother, I have learned to never underestimate her. Clearly, we did not find the dress that she wanted.”

  “Yes, with it being her wedding she should have a say,” Gwen said with polished smarm that Priscilla would never match, or even attempt.

  Priscilla giggled. “Might not want to say that too loudly.”

  “I always listen for the clinking of her heels before I speak,” Gwen informed Priscilla with a wink. “If you don’t need my assistance today, then I may go to see my mother.”

  Priscilla raised her eyebrows. “Is she doing well?”

  “Yes,” Gwen said in a rush of breath. “I didn’t mean to sound so alarming. She just has had a bit of nerves lately. The doctor says she just needs to stop worrying so much.”

  With a shake of her head, Priscilla whispered, “Fine thing to tell a mother.”

  “That’s what I said,” Gwen whispered back as if it was a secret. She drew herself up. “I had better go get things sorted before I head off.”

  Priscilla
gave her a smile. “Good luck with the housekeeper.”

  “Oh that old bat doesn’t scare me a bit,” Gwen said loudly then whispered, “She might scare me a little.” Gwen flashed Priscilla a grin then was swiftly out of the room with a wave.

  Priscilla shook her head and gave herself one last look over in the mirror. She hoped Gwen had a better day than she was in for. Priscilla imagined herself as impervious as she turned to go downstairs and face her mother over breakfast.

  She left her room with a sense of foreboding, as if at any moment something dreadful might wait around the corner, or maybe that corner, or that one over there. Yet nothing impeded her progress down the hall or the stairs. Priscilla sighed heavily as she stepped onto the marble floor at the base of the stairs.

  “So much for ghastly kidnappers lurking to swoop me away,” Priscilla said under her breath.

  A deep chuckle caused her to turn around and see the doorman at his station. “Wary the ogre on the way to the dining hall,” Jensen called.

  Priscilla felt her face warm with embarrassment. She lifted her hand in a wave at the man. He had been with the family for just a few years, but Priscilla liked him. He was a kind soul, and he liked a good joke as much as she did.

  “If he means to take me away from all of this, I might willingly go with him,” Priscilla told the doorman with a smile.

  Jensen chuckled again, the deep sound resonating around the entrance hall. “Ogres are a mean lot, Miss. Might want to wait for the next unscrupulous lout.”

  “You make a good point,” Priscilla conceded. “I suppose I shall have to eat breakfast with my mother and father no matter what this morning.”

  Jenson gave a nod of his head. “Probably for the best.”

  Priscilla did not know about all of that, but she certainly did not seem to have much in the way of choice. She turned herself toward the dining hall with resignation. There was nothing she could do to halt the passage of time, and she might as well get used to it.

  The estate where Priscilla and her family resided was East House, which was what her very unimaginative grandfather had named their estate. It stood in the outskirts of London in a sprawling network of other estates for the landed gentry who wished to be near London but not in the heart of it. Priscilla rather liked the fact that they were close enough to be involved in all London had to offer, but far enough away to pretend the unpleasant nature of London did not exist.

  The doors to the dining hall greeted her with a solemnness that rivaled the church doors before a sinner. She knew she had to go in but it did not make the act of doing so any less costly to her. A male staff member by the door gave her a bow as she approached, and pulled open the heavy oak doors for her.

  It was very much like a large castle gate being pulled aside to allow Priscilla to enter. Whether she was champion, emissary, or prisoner remained to be seen. The occupants of the dining hall looked up with expectant boredom.

  Priscilla gave her mother and father a bright smile that she had practiced so much of late that her cheeks hurt. “What a nice morning! Hello Father, Mother.” She dipped her head to each of them respectfully.

  The Earl of Chaplin regarded her with a slight curve to his lips Her father always seemed to have a smile lurking just behind his expression as if he were forever amused by the world, but of too good a breeding to show it. “Good morning, Priscilla. Join us for breakfast.”

  As if that was not the whole point of her coming to the dining hall, Priscilla gave him a pleased smile. “Thank you, Father.” She sat down at her usual seat to her father’s right side, across from her mother.

  “I saw in the paper that there was some unrest in the city,” Priscilla said as she tested the waters to see her parents’ moods.

  Her mother gave her a disapproving look. “What business has a lady reading such drivel?”

  “A lady should be aware of the world around her, Evelyn,” her father said to her mother.

  Lady Chaplin sighed at her husband. “You encourage her too much to keep her nose pressed into books. It is very hard to be ladylike with ink on one’s nose.”

  “A man who marries a gentile woman should expect her to have a good head on her shoulders,” Lord Chaplin retorted. There was that ever-presenting half-smile again, Priscilla noted.

  Lady Chaplin narrowed her eyes at Lord Chaplin. Priscilla felt like they were not done arguing, but Lady Chaplin’s eyes swung around to her and Priscilla was grateful that a maid chose that moment to come by and offer her some drink. “Oh thank you,” Priscilla said with gratitude to the young maid.

  The maid looked a bit surprised at how grateful Priscilla was, but she quickly bobbed her head and was off again to the kitchen. Priscilla’s father served her some of the meal as was customary. The maid’s interruption had caused the conversation to lull, which Priscilla thought was just as well.

  That is until her father said, “I saw the papers as well. I think that it all harkens back to those factories and the newer additions to the gentleman ranks of society.”

  “How so, Father?” Priscilla took a sip of her tea and waited patiently as her father seemed to gather his thoughts.

  Lord Chaplin leaned forward on the table as he did when he became truly engaged in a topic. His elbows firmly planted on the table, his hands clasped in front of him as if begging his audience to heed his words, Lord Chaplin said, “The factory owners have come into their lands through sudden spoils. They have no grounding in history or family. They need to be tempered.”

  “But why should it be that owning land makes one have to give up their livelihood? I have heard you speak of this before and you seemed rather fixated that they keep working instead of relinquishing their factories once they own land.” Priscilla set her teacup down, firmly passing the torch back to her father as she watched him with curious eyes.

  Lord Chaplin laughed and shook a finger at Priscilla. “At least you do listen to something I say.”

  Whatever her father would have said next was pushed aside as Bridgitte stormed into the dining hall. Priscilla’s younger sister always came into any room like a force of nature. Some days her entrance was sunlight and gentle breezes, but today it was a thunderstorm full of crashes and stomps.

  “My maid tore my favourite dress!” Bridgitte screamed the proclamation as if calling for the maid’s head on a platter. Everyone at the table cringed as her voice shrilled up into the higher octaves.

  Lady Chaplin scolded, “Calm yourself, Bridgitte. We do not throw tantrums over clothing. A dress can be mended or a new one purchased. Your reputation is not as easily fixed.”

  Bridgitte had the good sense to look embarrassed as she sank into her seat next to their mother. “Forgive me. I just became overwhelmed with grief. It was my favourite dress.”

  “One should try not to let one’s emotions rule them,” Lord Chaplin said firmly, then he added in a softer tone, “I know it is hard for ladies to control their emotions at times. You must forgive your right of birth on that.”

  Bridgitte frowned. “I just wish to eat and forget it all.”

  “That is probably a good call,” Lord Chaplin assured his youngest daughter as he served her a plate of food.

  Bridgitte thanked him and then glanced over at Priscilla. “You look nice.”

  “Thank you,” Priscilla said, wondering if it actually was a compliment. After all, Bridgitte was not one to throw out compliments without thought and Priscilla looked much as she did every morning. “Did your maid do something different with your hair?”

  Bridgitte’s hand went to her hair self-consciously. “Why? Is something wrong with it?” Lord Chaplin arched an eyebrow at the discussion and went back to drinking his coffee.